The nauseating beauty of a flight back from Rehab

Wow. Where do I even start here? The last time I posted was for a fundamentals of digital online media assignment (which I kicked ass at btw).
Thinking about Spring 2018 is overflowing my mind with sweet nostalgia and a major urge to vomit. Or maybe I’m just extremely nauseous sitting in the very back of this airplane next to a man digging into what has to be the most repulsive sandwich I’ve ever taken a whiff of. Besides that, Spring 2018 was packed with romance and heartbreak and some really shitty coping. Wait, scratch that… that romance was actually violent, controlling, and flat out psychotic. The heartbreak was extremely intense though. I guess there’s comfort in familiar pain. Stupidly enough. But I did hear that there’s no growth in the comfort zone and there’s no comfort in the growth zone. So that’s what I did, I grew away and into a hole of self medicating and rebounds and so many stupid mistakes. Long story short, that ex boyfriend knocked up a chick he hooked up with three months after the break up and now they’re engaged, and I quickly realized I was dealing with far more than I could handle on my end and was admitted into treatment. So after I tried to get everyone to hear my side of the story, the “his ex is crazy” rumors are deemed to be true. So here we are five months later and I’m on a flight back to Texas from treatment.
If I’m being completely honest, I’m terrified. I’m going back to my parents house at the age of 23 with no real direction, painfully sex deprived, unemployed, a college drop out, and in recovery. Recovery is supposed to be shiny and wonderful but I just haven’t gotten there yet. I’m blessed hands down! I’m just a mess, as well.
So considering how most of my friends now are moms, disappointed, or just simply have lives, I’ve decided that blogging my sad adventures is my best bet to have a connection to the outside world.
Sooo stay tuned. *eyeroll*